Wonderful Life
by marinoa
Summary: Life - this mysterious string of coincidences and cosmic miscalculations. Sometimes they bring people together. Sometimes, perhaps, they don't. AU.


_Author's note:_ It's been forever since I actually wrote a fic in one go, but here we go.

 **Wonderful Life**

The universe and everything in it is simply an outcome of a string of chances. Therefore, when one day an Arthur Kirkland walks down the street, stumbles upon a gorgeous bouquet of roses lying on the pavement, picks it up and gets shot, well, it's a simple cosmic miscalculation, never meant to happen, but irreversible nonetheless in all its insignificance.

To understand this, we need to understand that the universe is like a collection of anthills – it's crowded with millions and millions of tiny creatures, and each of these creatures does their own thing. Therefore millions of little things happen at the same time, one unknowing of the others. But that's not all. There's more to it. Let's say, there's a human walking his dog in a forest. He throws a ball for his dog to fetch, but miscalculates the trajectory, and the ball ends up in an anthill. It crushes, say, an ant or two, but, in the end, no universal harm is done. The human walks on. The ants move on. The one or two ants crushed with the ball are quickly forgotten.

So let's take an anthill. Let's take Rouen, a city in the north of France. Let's take a wedding.

The wedding is held near Seine, on a roof of a private apartment on 30th of May. The groom and the bride are lucky; the day is sunny and warm. They are happy. The groom has kissed the bride, and she is ready to throw her wedding bouquet, so that whoever catches it will be as happy as her one day. She turns her back to the guests and prepares for the throw.

This is the time for our metaphorical human walking the dog to enter the stage, unbeknownst to these celebrating ants. Only he isn't really a human. Once he used to be a powerful personification of a Nation, but as time re-drew the world maps, he faded away and took another profession. Now he goes by the name of Cupid, and his job is to make sure that people will love and continue falling in love through times to come.

And so it happens that when the bride tosses her bouquet, Cupid is ready to shoot his bullet of love into whoever first catches the flowers. (Yes, the _bullet_ – this Cupid finds bows and arrows outdated beyond help and considers guns far more awesome.)

This is where the cosmic miscalculation comes along. As the jolly company celebrates on the roof, the wind catches the bouquet as soon as it leaves the bride's hands and whisks it over the railing and down on the pavement.

Now, enter the first ant to be crushed by the ball, an Englishman at the age of twenty-three, walking along the street past the apartment with the wedding.

xXx

 _Whack!_

Arthur blinks and stops in his tracks. Quite out of nowhere something swooshes past his eyes and lands on the pavement just before his feet – a bouquet. A fancy bouquet, too, one with white and pink roses, tied with red and white ribbons. Arthur crouches and picks it up.

"Excuse me!"

Arthur jumps at the voice, as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. The call comes from behind his back, so he shrugs off the funny feeling and turns around.

A young man approaches him. He's almost as fancy as the bouquet in Arthur's hands, in a masculine way. He's wearing a black tailcoat, and there's a red rose pinned to its breast. An equally red ribbon holds his wavy blond hair at the nape of his neck, and his blue eyes twinkle mirthfully. Arthur stares at him, fingers tightening around the bouquet.

The man jogs to Arthur and stops at an arm's length from him. He's smiling, it looks like he has laughed very recently, and laughter doesn't seem to be far from his lips even now. There's a light, cheeky stubble shadowing his chin.

"Excuse me," the man says again, in French of course, and laughs. "I see you're the lucky one."

The man eyes him with his impossibly vivid blue eyes, and all of a sudden Arthur becomes extremely aware of his worn jeans and the faded T-shirt. Something pinches at his heart from the inside.

But the man continues to look at him expectantly, and so Arthur forces his mouth open. "What?" is all that he manages, but it's enough, as the man with a rose pinned to his tailcoat chuckles again.

"You caught the bouquet," he explains the evident, but when Arthur still doesn't understand, he elaborates, "There's a wedding celebration going on on the top of this building. Jeanne – the bride – threw the bouquet, but she put a bit too much power into her swing, and the flowers ended up here." The man laughs, _again_. "She's a strong girl."

Arthur's eyes move numbly to the flowers in his hands. "Oh." Then he catches himself and thrusts the bouquet to the man. "Sorry," he apologises for no apparent reason. "Here."

The man looks at the flowers and then at the endearingly flustered Englishman, and smiles. "No," he says, "You keep this. I only came down because we didn't want perfectly good flowers go to waste. But you caught them, so they are rightfully yours."

"No, I -" Arthur tries to protest, but the man gently pushes the bouquet back to Arthur.

"Take it," he urges and winks. "Might be you'll soon be as lucky as I am." His fingers briefly brush the Englishman's, and Arthur's heart is pinched again.

"As lucky as you?" he hears himself asking.

"Indeed," the man says and laughs, so mirthfully, so sincerely that it pains Arthur to hear it. "I happen to be the happy groom, you see."

"Oh. _Oh_." _Of course he is_. And only then does Arthur take note of the elegant golden ring on the man's left ring finger. "Congratulations," he adds hastily.

"Thank you," the man says, tilting his head with a funny look. Arthur dares a quick glance at his face, but fixes his gaze on the flowers again. "Uh, right, I think I'll just -"

"Wait!" the man calls out when Arthur begins turning away. "I'm Francis. What's your name?"

"Arthur." And it hurts to say it, but Arthur can't say why, and he just really, really wants to get out, far away from this man, from his stupid flowers, from his damned smile.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Arthur," the man says. "Perhaps we'll meet yet again."

Arthur mumbles something incoherent and leaves, taking only one peek over his shoulder to see a door closing after Francis.

Above him, on the roof, the red-eyed Cupid stares after Arthur's back, his Colt Peacemaker limply hanging in his hand, and wonders if he has made a terrible mistake.

xXx

Arthur and Francis do meet again, but their next encounter takes five years to realise, and much and more can and does happen in that timespan.

What happens is this.

The Cupid takes care if his work. He shoots people. They fall in love. They break up, then fall in love again. Even when their love fades away or ends in another, crueller ways, they reach a resolve and are eventually ready to love again. However, there's an exception to every rule. This time, the exception is Arthur.

The Cupid sometimes checks up on him, and every time, it's ever the same. A bullet, once shot into a heart, cannot be pulled out any more. It sits there until the love it carries can be released, either until the love is fed with love, or the love is let go of. In Arthur's case, it's neither. He has got nothing to feed his love with, no amorous words or glances, but he can't let go, either, because sometimes, he glimpses them from afar, their little family. First, it's just two of them. But after a couple of years, one day, there is the third one, too, a tiny, but oh, so loved one, and all that Arthur can do is turn away before he's seen, and pretend that it's nothing. But it's not 'nothing'. Because since the bullet cannot be removed from his heart, it sits there tightly and throbs painfully with every beat. And when Arthur sometimes sees Francis, and his heart starts beating faster, also the pain increases along with his heartbeat. It's cruel torture, but even Cupid can't help it; he himself shot the bullet of love into Francis' chest, so he's the first to understand that Francis' love for Jeanne and their little family is not nearing an end any time soon. It's out of the Cupid's hands.

However, the universe is nothing but a string of chances. And chance has nothing to do with what is or isn't out of anyone's hands.

Two years after Francis' wedding, Arthur moves back to England. Two months later, there is a fatal collision in Rouen, on the road near Seine. A beloved wife and a loving mother will be missed, but the universe doesn't even notice.

xXx

Another anthill: London, England. Early April, a bleary sun, a scarf tied loosely around Arthur's neck. It's noon.

Arthur wanders aimlessly in the shopping centre. He needs a new light jacket, for spring and early autumn, as his old one is just that – old, too worn. Even he, Arthur, feels self-conscious wearing it in public.

But shopping is so dull. It always takes him ages to find the right clothes – either the size is wrong, or the style isn't to Arthur's liking – and going through it alone makes the entire ordeal even worse. It has to be done, however, so Arthur persistently sails through one shop after the other.

But then, just as he has exited another men's clothing shop, something catches his attention – a quiet sob.

Arthur doesn't usually pay much attention to children. It isn't that he dislikes them, not at all. He simply doesn't usually get into situations where children are involved, is all, and in places like shopping centres he is only happy if he can do his shopping without the yelling of angry and tired children assaulting his ears. But now – it's that lonely little sob that makes him turn his head and notice a small boy huddled on the floor, half behind a bench, as if he were hiding. He's alone, there's not a parent in sight, so Arthur glances around and approaches the boy. He hesitates, then makes up his mind and sits down on the bench.

The boy is small, only three or four years old at most, and it astonishes Arthur that he is so quiet. He's obviously lost, but usually lost children yell their throats raw to find their parents again. It's almost sad how this little boy seems to purposefully silence his sobs, as if he didn't want anyone to see him. Well, he probably doesn't – perhaps he wishes for his mother to find him despite him hiding from the crowd.

When Arthur sits down, the boy falls completely silent. Arthur gives him a little time to get used to his presence (and perhaps he needs that time as well, because he isn't entirely sure how to deal with children), but then he cranes his neck to look behind the bench. "Hello," he says.

The boy stills entirely, and Arthur fears that he frightens the child to death, but then the boy steals a glance at him. He doesn't scream, so that's a start, Arthur supposes.

"Is that your fortress?" he asks, because he fears to appear threatening if inquiring immediately after the problem.

The child nods slowly and quickly wipes a tear with his small hand. He is all tense and reserved, but after his first success Arthur has gained confidence.

"Looks a safe one," he compliments. "Are you waiting for someone there?"

The boy looks at Arthur with a slightly quivering lips, and suddenly he's crying again, tears streaming down his round cheeks. But even then he cries quietly, sniffling between the sobs.

Arthur stares at him, almost as at loss as the boy himself. What should he do? Stand up and proclaim that there's a lost, crying boy there? The thought makes him shudder; he'd rather avoid too much attention, too. But what then? He can't leave the boy like this, nor can he take him with him... or can he? There should be a help desk somewhere in the shopping centre. Arthur could take the boy there and ask a worker to announce from the speakers that a child is waiting for his parents.

"Have you lost your parents?" he asks the boy, crouching beside him to look less threatening.

The boy nods, and something in that helpless creature melts Arthur from the inside. He wants to help this boy. He wants to see him smiling.

"Would you like to come with me? I could help you find them."

The boy looks at him both hopefully and distrustfully, but eventually hope wins, and he nods. Arthur lifts the boy in his arms and feels the pocket of his worn jacket for a handkerchief. He dries the boy's tears with it and smiles reassuringly. "Don't cry," he says. "We are going to find your parents. Say, what is your name?"

The boy mumbles something quietly, but Arthur thinks he gets it right. "Matthew?" The boy nods in affirmative, and Arthur offers his own name in exchange. "Now, let's find your parents!"

"Only papa," the boy says quietly. He doesn't cry any more, and his small hands clutch at Arthur's scarf.

"We'll find your papa," Arthur assures him.

It takes little time to find the help desk, and after a couple of questions, the worker makes the announcement for Matthew's father. As her voice echoes in the speakers, Arthur kneels in front of Matthew and smiles. "Hear that? I bet your father will be here in less than a minute!"

He barely finishes talking when he sees Matthew's eyes fix on something behind his back, and a smile widens his lips. "Papa," he says quietly and springs past Arthur.

"I told you, didn't -" Arthur chuckles, but then he turns around, and suddenly his heart freezes solid.

What he sees is Francis, Francis with his arms around the little Matthew, hugging the boy close and murmuring something in his ear. Francis, whom Arthur escaped to London three years ago in vain hopes of leaving this ache behind. And it had gone so well, too, it had worked, a little, the pain had dulled somewhat, so what the _hell_ is Francis doing here, now, in London, and _what_ does Arthur has to do to be able to breathe with ease again, even once in his life? Right then he feels just like Matthew earlier, he wants to withdraw into a hidden corner and sob there until his heart is empty and numb once more.

But then Francis' eyes finally rise up to thank the person who helped to find his precious son, and he sees Arthur. Arthur watches how his brows furrow ever so slightly, then rise in recognition. "Arthur!" he says and stands up, Matthew in his arms.

His voice pierces Arthur. Even after five years he remembers Arthur's name, and it hurts, because Arthur himself would rather forget.

"Hello," he says.

Francis approaches him, all smiles and – damn, he even still has his stubble, doesn't he, he looks just the same. "Do you remember me? We met at my wedding five years ago, remember?" His smile wavers a little. "In Rouen."

"I do."

"I do recall telling you then that we'd meet again."

"Yes." Arthur swallows. "Well, now that Matthew is -"

"Wait," Francis hastens to say. "I didn't even thank you yet, and I don't want to wait another five years to do it." He grins. "Thank you."

"It was no trouble."

Matthew looks at Arthur, scrutinises him even, and Arthur gets an uncomfortable feeling that their roles have somehow changed. The entire situation is terribly awkward, because, Arthur's heart aside, Francis and he don't even know each other at all.

"Well, Arthur," Francis breaks the silence. "It's been an eventful morning for Matthieu and myself, so I say a good lunch is in order. Would you like to join us?"

"I -"

"It would be my treat of course. As a thank you for helping my boy. Would you like that, Matthieu?" The boy nods, silently but firmly, and Arthur is torn between agreeing and walking away. What good would possibly ensue if he stayed? Would he become a friend, a close family friend even? Would he be the one Francis would ask to babysit Matthew while he and his wife would go and enjoy an evening together, dining and dancing and loving each other?

"I'm sorry, I really need to... need to find a new jacket, and -"

"Papa is good at finding clothes," Matthew says. The surprised look that Francis throws at him doesn't escape Arthur, but the surprise immediately turns into a pleased smile. "Of course," Francis says. "We could help with your shopping after lunch." He laughs. "Matthieu has got quite an eye for good clothing, too." He gently ruffles the boy's hair. "If you don't mind, of course."

"Well," Arthur begins, and unbeknownst to him, a certain red-eyed Cupid smacks his head in annoyance. "Seize your chance, idiot!"

Arthur doesn't hear him, or feel his smack, but something pinches his heart from the inside again, and the words tumble from his lips before he can re-check them. "Well, I suppose I don't," he says hesitantly.

Both Francis and Matthew beam at him, father and son, and Arthur's heart clenches.

Behind him, the Cupid grins victoriously.

xXx

The universe is nothing but a string of coincidences, but those coincidences, however insignificant on a grand scale, build lives. Each life is constructed of its own chances, some more easily than others. But for every hardship one encounters there are a million possible chances that can suddenly point an entirely new route, to an unexpected, perhaps miscalculated road. Sometimes it's painful. But sometimes, it's worth it.

And so, almost a year later, Arthur is finally able to breath with an ease that he hasn't deemed possible for the past five years.

X

 _An additional note or two:_

 _\- 30th of May is the day when Jeanne d'Arc was burned, Rouen is where it happened._

 _\- The Cupid is kind of Prussia?_

 _\- The early April hints (obviously?) at Entente Cordiale._

 _\- The title is the title of the song Wonderful Life by Black._

 _\- I need sleep._


End file.
